Talon's Grasp
by Danowsawa
Summary: Sombra and Reaper, just two cogs in Talon's wheel, have acquired a new prize in the deadly Widowmaker. Now somewhat within the favor of Talon's elite, the two have their eyes set on another, Doomfist, to compliment their plans. But what dastardly brew might this conglomeration of sinister intentions have in store for Overwatch? or larger still, the entire world?
1. In Media Res

The following story is the penultimate chapter in a rather lengthy Overwatch series of tales I've been telling, and by this point in the story, it's _**highly **_recommended that you have read the previous stories leading up to this one. I would suggest reading in the following order if you're new to this story, as it will be referencing key plot moments, as well as certain character moments, before we reach the final chapter that brings it all to, what I hope to be, an epic conclusion.

**-Origin Stories-**

**'Reign From Above' and/or 'Lacroix'**

**-Recalled to Action-**

**'Madness and Meihem in the Outback' and/or 'Deadlocked'**

_-Side Stories-_  
_(Aren't essential, but feature the same characters in this universe)_

_'Christmas at Tracer's' and/or 'Days in the Life' and/or 'Off Days'_

**-Impend-**

**'Talon's Grasp'**

**'Until Dawn Do We Part'**

If you're new to this entire endeavor, I hope this makes you excited to experience it from the beginning! I started writing this, and fan-fiction as a whole, really, two or three years ago, and it's been one of the most amazing parts of my life being able to share something to personal to me with you all. For those of you who have made it this far, I can only hope beyond hope that I give this series of stories an amazing conclusion- but first, some time with Talon ;p

Happy reading :)

* * *

The dead lighting of the Gibraltar interrogation room unnerved even the most hardened of criminals, it's ghostly sort of white light flooding the room with a sense of dread. Beyond the industrial-looking metal table at its center, it's uncomfortable aluminum chair where many a villain had sat, it all completed a lifeless portrait, one that would haunt many simply by how drab and dreary it was, yet how quickly it seemed to force itself into its visitor's psyche.

Even for those administering such interrogations, the room was a place where no one voluntarily entered, especially Lena Oxton, who'd once confided with Winston that even the atmosphere in that room was positively ghoulish, almost haunted; the floors, walls, and ceilings all painted, repainted, all to hide the pounds of flesh and blood that had stained the place during Blackwatch's darker days.

One needed nerves of steel to resist the urge to go insane in there, and many Overwatch personnel would enter and remain emotionless, not daring to allow their spirits to enter along with their bodies. The speed at which people would fall apart, either emotionally or psychologically, made it all the more odd that it's current occupant remained silent, even now after five hours of mind-numbing silence.

Jack Morrison stood behind the window that stood on the opposite side of that room's mirror, his eyes narrowed with a subtle curiosity, trying to get a read on the man sitting there. Trying to gain any insight, silently, on this person of interest, trying to figure out what could have possibly connected this man with the woman who killed one of Jack's closest associates. One of Jack's closest friends.

How could this shell of a man be connected to Amélie Lacroix? the very woman who had murdered Gerard Lacroix as he lay there, defenseless, fully trusting of the woman who'd married him not a month earlier.

Jack's lips tensed as he eyed the man's scalp, hoping to peer into his eyes for some read on him, though the man simply sat there, head hanging from his shoulders, his body language signaling a man more akin to a mannequin than a living, breathing human being. He nearly wanted to barge into that room and pull the man's head up, though that would ruin both the sense of tension he was attempting to grab ahold of the man with as well as the appearance of his associate, whose arrival was bound to be made in the next few moments.

"Commander Morrison". This sudden reemergence of Lacroix's murder forced untapped memories to flood back into Jack's mind. Memories of Blackwatch, Talon… _him_. He thought of Lacroix's voice, "Commander Morrison", referring to him perpetually in his professional manner despite being surrounded, in informal settings, by the rest of Overwatch, who'd often simply call him "Jack". Blackwatch…

Jack's face remained stagnant as the door to his side slid open, revealing the robotic body of Genji Shimada, whose whole form had become more metal than man, his neon green slits of suit glowing bright in the darkened room surrounding his Captain as he stepped toward him, turning to give attention to their prisoner as the broken man came into sight.

"McCree finished his debriefing," Genji noted, "This man didn't speak a word of anything. He claims he didn't do anything to interrogate him, however."

Genji's head lowered only slightly, "He didn't want there to be an accident."

Jack shrugged with a singular shoulder, "You Blackwatch guys were some sick fucks, huh?"

His friend chuckled, "Got us results, didn't it? What's that- utilitarianism? What's one criminal's life compared to millions of good people?"

"Which one is _he_?" Jack asked sardonically, turning a sidelong glare toward Genji, who simply shrugged.

"You live in the business long enough, you start to realize nobody's good or evil. Even if everybody _was_, you've good people doing bad things and bad people doing good. What did you think Blackwatch was for Overwatch? Good people, doing bad things, for good people," Genji concluded simply.

Jack muttered, "Does that bother you?"

"Not much. Not anymore," Genji shrugged, "I'm at peace with myself and my family's past. I'm little more than a hand being instructed by a mind; I can only hope I've aligned myself with people who do more good than harm."

The cyborg dropped his head, "Jesse seems to have more difficulty with that."

"He always has," Jack nodded, reached down into his pocket to retrieve a small device, handing it to Genji, who eyed him curiously, "This locks the doors. Make sure none of the women wander in here."

Genji watched him with darkened eyes, "Why? What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet, if that guy's good or bad," Jack explained calmly, "Guess I'll find out. All I know is he's the one associating with the woman who shoved a hair pin straight into the chest of my second…repeatedly."

Genji watched without a word, his face bowing to examine the tiny key fob in his hand, both to find the correct buttons and to not watch as Jack entered the cold, dreary room. He stepped up toward the window as Jack fell into the chair opposite the man, recalling the proper callsign to retrieve the services of Dr. Ziegler, should such an occasion arise, not knowing what Jack would do, or more to the point, what he was capable of.

The man sitting in front of the Commander remained unmoved, save for the most minute of shaking due to his breathing, forcing Genji's eyes to narrow only slightly with curiosity. He knew from his work with his family, the Shimadas, the kind of person this man was. Either he was a harder man than the most ardent criminals, or he was so broken by now, to the point where little troubled him, even the threat of death, maybe even especially death. Genji's arm shivered for a brief moment at the thought. Perhaps this man was welcoming death.

The mechanical whirring to Genji's side forced his attention away, the metallic doors sliding open to reveal Jesse McCree walking in, his bare chest revealing the cold bite of machinery that had torn through his whole forearm. His silver hand clutched at a towel slung over his chest, reaching up to dry out his ear while his dark eyes tracked up toward Genji, his voice emotionlessly professional.

"You called?" he muttered with a gravelly voice.

Genji nodded, "Figured we should have a professional on site. Can't have the Golden Boy going from ten to a hundred his first go-round."

McCree's eyes turned to slits, unable to ascertain his former associate's meaning, though it became clear soon enough. His head swung to the side as he approached the glassy window dividing the two men from the interrogation, Jesse quickly keeping an eye on Jack, who'd sat down across from the still-slumped figure.

"The ones that were personal," Genji muttered coolly, "They were always the easiest. There never was much art to those- you just _whew_ and let your emotions take over."

He'd made a slicing motion with his open palm as he spoke, turning to examine the metallic portion of his comrade's body, "How's the arm?"

Jesse shrugged absently, "Not too bad. You sure he'll be alright?"

"Who, Morrison?" Genji asked sincerely, "Lacroix was his best friend in many ways; I haven't a doubt he'll pass with- Oh, look."

The two men stood motionlessly as Jack shot up to his feet, throwing a hand across the table and grabbing a fistful of the man's hair, pulling their captive to his feet as he pulled his head close in a magnanimous emphasis.

"Michael Hale," Genji explained, "He was reported around our prime suspect, Amélie Lacroix nee Guillard, mere days before the assassination. What all did you catch while you were out West?"

Jesse took a moment of silence before replying lowly, "Just a name and a description. Figured I owed the broken shambles of Overwatch somethin' once I headed back home. Lacroix was my friend too."

"Ah, yes," Genji noted with a nod, "I never exactly got along with the ma- Look, back to the file. Michael Hale is an American, traveled to France as a English teacher. By all accounts, he was a stand-up guy; frequented a bar or two, but we all have our vices."

Genji's spine shook after saying that, catching a glimpse of Jack shaking the man's head to get some point across.

"Before we could go through witnesses and video feeds, he'd already fled," Genji explained, "Hopefully Jack can coerce him to fill in a few blanks. This Michael Hale is the only true lead we have; Amélie Lacroix has been missing for years now, leaving the case resolved, not to mention a lack of closure for many Overwatch associates who've returned for this recall, yourself included, I presume."

Jesse frowned, "Closure ain't all it's cracked up ta' be, partner."

"I was never one for it, personally," Genji shrugged with a tilted head, "It's a good way to get in trouble if you're seeking the wrong thing."

The two men watched as Jack strode around the interrogation table, tying the man down to his chair, tightly, before pulling the manila folder that had been slid into the back waist of his pants, splaying it open before dropping onto the table in from of their prisoner as though to force him to examine the contents in some psychological torment. Leaving the man to the crime scene photos, Jack turned back toward the door, swinging it open and saving his exhausted sigh for after it closed behind him, shaking his head before eyeing Genji.

"Nothin'."

The cyborg chuckled, "You expected the world in a day? Some gods even take longer."

Jack grunted dismissively before turning to Jesse with a nod, "How's the arm?"

Rolling his eyes beneath Genji's wry grin, Jesse replied heatedly, "Y'know, both 'a you, there's a men underneath this metal thing!"

"We're all old bastards; I figured it'd be in better shape than your ticker. Gotta stay hopeful," Jack managed a smirk.

Jesse answered, "My heart's fine, thanks. My hair is too, you old, silver-haired fart."

Jack's grin remained as he offered a handshake, "Not bad for my first interrogation, huh?"

"From what I saw, anyway," Jesse answered simply, "Best not ta reveal all yer cards the first hand. Their mind is the easiest avenue- you get 'im sweatin', eat at himself from within, that does more than any-"

The cowboy eyed Genji, who snickered while nervously scratching his face, leaving Jesse to bring up the simplest tool he could think of, "More than any bobby pin, anyway."

Their Commander's eyes gradually shrunk as he attempted to understand the complexities of such a tiny instrument when it came to 'interrogation', but quickly shook his mind of the matter, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone, "McCree, you gave your deposition. I assume you've been caught up on things here as well?"

"Yes."

Jack's eyes jumped up from his phone to watch Jesse's face, "So you know our enemy?"

The cowboy nodded.

"Any reservations?"

Jesse chewed at his tongue for a moment, managing to calm his reflexive venom at his loyalty being somewhat questioned, and ultimately answered, "None whatsoever."

"Good," Jack acknowledged easily, returning his attention to his phone, "With you back, the recall is complete. I'll be the one coordinating our first course of action with the assistance of Winston and going through Ms. Adawe as far as clearance goes."

Jack's eyes lit up again, "Reinstatement means _thin _ice. We aren't hunting down another Blackwatch scandal. Nothing, _nothing_, happens without the chairwoman's approval."

Genji's cybernetic air pulled up into the air as they crossed his chest, his head falling to the side as he asked curiously enough, "Any particular reason you're saying such things to two former Blackwatch members?"

Slowly, Jack's fingers slowed atop his phone, his head rising to meet Genji's inquisitive stare, his voice stern as he clarified, "_No _clearance, no assignment. Adawe wants every last operative, every last target, every last mission _we have account of_ accounted for."

As if reading between the lines, Jesse's eyes narrowed suspiciously, jumping toward Genji to gauge the cyborg's like reaction, the three men all in understanding regarding their assignment…official or otherwise.

"Now," Jack concluded with a softer air, "Jesse looks like he's just had a shower and he's been here five hours. Not sure why I've gone days without, now. We'll keep an eye out for our suspect here through the feeds; let him stew in his-"

_BAM_

The three men all shared quick glances toward one another before immediately swerving their heads toward the interrogation room, their faces all wide open in horror. Michael's face now had a massive collection of blood pooled at his forehead as he lifted his torso up from being smashed into the table, his eyes inflamed and scorching red as tear-strewn cheeks grew raw. His gritted teeth chattered in terror, as if a lifetime's worth of pain and suffering had collectively enveloped his body.

The operatives watched, unmoving, as though in shock, until Michael suddenly threw his head down

_BAM_

"Fuck!" Jack exclaimed as he dove for the door, Jesse having beat him to it to swing the door open furiously.

The men flooded into the room, Jesse sliding toward the chair and wrapping an arm around Michael's neck as the man shouted out angrily, twisting and turning his head to get away from the frigid metal that now restrained him. Jack grabbed at the man's wrists, his fingernails already malnourished and had now torn as he clawed at the arms of the chair, desperate to yank his way out from his imprisonment.

"Goddamn it!" Jesse shouted, "Get the fuckin'-!"

Genji slammed a syringe into the back of Michael's neck, the vial automatically injecting itself into the man's spinal cord, nearly immediately rendering him weaker as his resistance waned further and further. Jack's heart continued to race a mile a minute as he cautiously released the man's arms, watching Jesse do much the same, allowing their prisoner's head to fall forward as the man slipped into a deep sleep.

His eyes jumping from either of his men, Jack quickly pulled his phone out with a swift shake of his head, "Fuckin' hell- I didn't want- Hey, Z? Get down here to the cell block. Possible concussion. Yeah. I fuckin' told you already, I didn't-!"

Jack left the room with a tense posture, running his hand through his hair to leave Genji and Jesse behind, the two men examining the scene before them, more aghast than anything. Genji bent low to pull the man's face toward him, working a thumb to lift his eyelid for any signs of anything that might explain his suddenly erratic behavior, while Jesse took a step toward the table, reaching his silver hand down to slide the open folder closer.

It was the case file for the Lacroix murder, pictures strewn about from having been dropped there; grisly images of a man, Gerard Lacroix, laying atop his bed, his nude body sprawled about with blood coursing throughout the pictures, the unmistakable sight of a large, bulbed hairpin rising from his lifeless chest. Jesse's eyes twisted angrily upon seeing the file for the first time, quickly falling with curiosity as his hand slid toward the crease in the folder, fingering a silver necklace that had been included with the rest of the evidence, a bloody mark strewn across the pendant.

He mouthed quietly to himself, curiously, "'M'..?"


	2. The Gutter

"I'm a fuckin' _genius_!" shouted Sombra, throwing an outstretched finger out toward the lengthy desk that housed the collection of Talon's overlords, it's 'Board'.

One of them turned to Maximilien, her 'handler', who shifted in his seat, his red Omnic eyes straining to comprehend where her confidence had arisen from, "I fail to see how that's the case."

A dramatic sigh escaped Sombra as she crossed her arms, shaking her head angrily, "Chale… You got your ears on straight, pendejo? Do I need to come over and get the grease out?"

Maximilien ceased to reply, still waiting for Sombra to explain herself. She rolled her eyes at having her expertise questioned, reaching into her pocket and sliding out a spherical, machine-like object, waving it in front of her for the Board to examine, though very few of them appeared to be interested, even Maximilien. She frowned, figuring she'd open up her presentation with a bit of dazzle.

"How does _this_ lead to the assassination of a higher-up in Overwatch, hm?"

She rolled the steely ball in her hand, a wry smirk stretching across her face, "This pup here- it's a chronal projector. It taps into a subject's mind, projecting subconscious thoughts, ideas- I can see _any little thing _inside of somebody's mind. A memory? Got it. A code that has been implanted into the unknowing frontal core of a Manchurian candidate? Got it."

"At first, all I could do with it was to use it simply to translate brain activity into binary, tracking down thoughts and porquería by hunting through code for days. _Now_, after refining its use, I can capture minds and project them, almost like a film, onto a television screen," Sombra proudly, yet deviously, noted with a grin.

Maximilien eyed her emotionlessly, another member of the Board, a heavyset human with eyes bulged in anger as if knowing his time was being wasted, cursing loudly, "Fer fuck's sake- we've been doin' mind shit like that for years!"

Sombra shot the man a severe glare, "_Not _like this, pendejo…"

The man leaned back in his seat, still seething angrily, as Sombra went on, "My Widowmaker- y'know her? How'd you think _I _managed to get _her _to kill her beloved husband, eh? How'd you think I offered Talon the greatest assassin known to men? just by looking around in her head?"

"With some adjustments, I'm able to _implant _things- not just information they'll stumble across once they wake up; I mean information, commands, order, whatever, locked behind _very _specific sensory inputs. and not just _one_, but many."

Sombra's eyes narrowed, "How else would the name of a play lead to the death of one of the Board's most ardent adversaries?"

The Board members started becoming restless, though Maximilien remained still, his shoulders rising mechanically for a moment as he shook his head, "Sombra. Get to the point."

Sombra trembled at being rushed after such a rehearsed presentation, though she did as instructed for the time being, "We captured her, brought her back to the Gutter, did my implants and returned her home. Not empty handed, I assure- well, not empty minded. I stuck in a 'lock', a play she'd once been in, 'Les Sylphides'. Upon hearing or remembering that fact, it sent her body into a nauseous rage- quite understandable an event, I do say, after such a traumatic event as a kidnapping."

"More than that, when we kidnapped her, she had a necklace on. I removed the tiny pendant from it, had her ingest in while unconscious. Another 'lock', to be seen after that nausea tore through her body, was upon seeing that pendant, she was to _kill _Gerard Lacroix. A perfect sleeper agent, besides the obvious attachment to merely the name of 'Talon'," Sombra explained, "I gathered information from her mind and used it against her like a glove being unraveled by a pipsqueak of a child. and I did a _damn _good job of it."

Unconvinced, the man from early hoisted his large body forward, chortling, "You're mad if you're tryin' ta'-!"

"Sit down, Mr. R!" Sombra shouted angrily, though her posture remained proper, "Don't have me recount the number of times _your _squads request the aid of _my _prized Widowmaker!"

The man huffed angrily, but Maximilien was quick to wave him off, turning down the lines of Board members down either side of him, "Order. Sombra, please relate to the Board how adding this man, Akande Ogundimu, to your squad will benefit Talon as a whole."

The hacker smirked, crossing her arms as her head fell to the side in ease of thought, "We'll wreck shit up. What else were you expecting?"

The dank concrete walls of the Gutter were home to Talon's literally underground operation, and also home to many individuals within the organization. Although that name implied some semblance of assortment into organized chunks, Talon was merely a conglomeration of workers, in their little clusters of men and women, only truly connected by the Board, which oversaw everybody's work, offering assistance and a rigid backbone to so many global entities of often evil intent. In exchange, these groups pledged fealty to the Board, who would often exchange members to assemble specialized squads to carry out larger missions.

Sombra belonged to one of her own clusters, not only including herself and her Widowmaker, the final member of which stood against the dark concrete wall that sat just outside the boardroom, waiting for Sombra to finish lobbying for the group. So dark were these walls, illuminated by little more than electric candle-like bulbs quite a ways above the ground, that the man there was more shadow than man, his sickly, pale white mask turned downward to conceal himself as he waited, not wanting to catch any attention from any wayward squads that might be roaming the Gutter as well.

His head slowly rose as the giant steel doors began to separate, revealing Sombra strutting out confidently from the inner boardroom, her shoulders only slumping in despair as the doors shut behind her, a groan escaping her as she cursed, "Fuck."

"Didn't go well..?" the shadowy man asked.

"Pfft, 'course not," Sombra complained with a sheer groan, "They don't give two shits about what we do or how well we do it. Didn't even bother a glance at this thing…"

She lifted her hand, rolling the cerebral projected around in her hand, leaving her associate to opine with a questioning tone, "Probably for the best, eh? You don't even know how it works."

Sombra shot him a stare, "I _said _I was workin' on it! Getting this thing backwards engineered is a- Whoever built this thing was a fuckin' genio."

"And we haven't a genie ourselves," the man poigniently notes, leaving Sombra to eye him.

"That's not what genio-"

She caught him in a dark chuckle, figuring out his mistake was intentional, the equivalent of mockery, forcing her into a snarl as she stomped away, shoving the orb into her pocket as she scowled, "Fuck you, Reaper. I don't need your _shit _today."

"I didn't need your baggage," he challenged evenly, causing Sombra to spin her head around her shoulder.

She lowered her head darkly as she muttered, "Where is she.?"

"I locked her up," Reaper answered quickly, "Just because you want her chained down doesn't make me liable for the same."

Sombra returned to her quickening pace, shaking her head s she made her way down the ever-darkening hallway, "I thought we had a deal. I thought we were in this together."

"We did," Reaper answered, his pace a non-factor as he easily met Sombra's speedy retreat, "But I'm no one's prisoner. _She _wasn't a part of our agreement; I'm no babysitter."

She fired back, "Widow is-"

"Good in the field," Reaper murmured in interruption, "Here, I couldn't care less. I've things to do."

Sombra rolled her eyes with a scoff, "Oh yeah, I forgot you have hauntings at five every day. Fuckin' fantasma."

"_My things_," Reaper clarified devilishly, "Help grant you audience with the Board. Don't mistake my work with kindness. I help you only because it helps _me_."

Sombra replied, "Then do what I tell you to when it comes to my chica. I have _no _reason to help _you_ when you refuse to do the same for me."

The specter shrugged, "Just be happy I offered the courtesy of locking her up before checking on you to make sure you did as you said you would, which, must I remind you, your own evaluation was unfriendly to us."

"Just- Just let me get in there again before the vote," Sombra groaned, "This meeting was merely to plant the seeds of interest."

Reaper paused, denoting his thinking, which concerned Sombra as he finally spoke aloud, "You said three days ago that this meeting was going to secure Doomfist's services for us."

"Look cabrón, I don't need to be corrected by a fuck- Where's the light?" Sombra asked suddenly, eyeing their shared quarters within the Gutter.

Each door had a light that sat above each door, signaling when each room was being occupied; Sombra was looking for it as a sign that Widowmaker was locked within where Reaper had left her, though it only indicated that their quarters were empty. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, turning toward Reaper to find his ghoulish mask raised, pausing as he watched the empty bulb.

"Was on when I-"

Sombra broke into a near-frantic walking pace, charging toward the door opposite their dorm across the hallway, slamming her fist into the metal plated with a furious shout, "DEX! Open this door right-!"

As if in anticipation, the door swung open tenderly, stopping abruptly as the chain hung round the side snapped taut, keeping little more than a few inches allowing for any space between. A man's face slithered around, smiling politely between the door and threshold, his eyes jumping from Reaper to Sombra and back again.

"Ah, howdy," he nodded with severely feigned happiness, "What, ah, brings you two lovely blokes-"

Sombra kicked the door to snap away his attention, her teeth showing angrily, "Where is she?"

"_She_? Who do you mean, _she_?" the man wondered joylessly.

Another vicious kick at the door left Sombra's tongue aflame, "You know fuckin' well who I'm talking about, you two-bit hijo de las mil putas!"

The man shrugged, turning his nose up, "I don't even know what that shit means. Look, just go sit tight in your little hovel and I'm sure whoever you're lookin' for will turn up soon enough."

He grinned, squeezing his head in through the crack in the door, "Unless you'd like a _fuckin' _good time in our guest's place?"

Sombra didn't waste a second, sending a fist flying through the air and embedding it into the sleaze's face, forcing him to fall away back into the room, crying out in pain before crying out, "Y-You bitch!"

He managed to kick the door shut, leaving Sombra to sigh as she crossed her arms, shaking her head as she stared at the closed door. Turning her head over her shoulder, she found that Reaper had vanished, so she returned to the door, patting her foot impatiently until a violent _BANG _shook the door from its hinges, though Sombra remained unfazed. A moment later, the slattering sound of the chain lock broke the tense air, revealing Reaper on the other side of the door as it opened up, allowing Sombra to step inside the quarters, careful to avoid the man at her feet, knocked out cold.

"Fuckin' Splitstrands," Sombra complained lowly, offering a swift kick into the cold man's lifeless body, "Squad full'a swine. Wait here in case someone shows up; I'll find her."

Reaper didn't acknowledge her, though Sombra spun around, pointing a finger toward him, "And you better fuckin' _listen _this time!"

The shadowy man feigned interest as he turned toward the door, leaving Sombra to walk toward the next room, the second in this small dorm of three rooms, still surrounded with wet, dank concrete reminiscent of a sewer. Her brow remained fixed ahead of her as she slowly crept along, unsure of what to expect as she approached the door leading into the back room. She pushed her shoulder into its face, bracing herself as she pressed an ear to the door, attempting to catch what she could with her ear, but to no avail. Instead, she crouched down, eyeing the thick cord that led out from beneath the door that carried electricity from the generator somewhere else in the Gutter to each room, wrapping her fingers around it and clutching it lightly while her gloved hand began to glow a dark pink with activity.

A shock took hold of her for just a brief moment as her glove opened up a circuit along the cord, traveling inside the room straight toward the computer, sending an electric pulse toward its built-in webcam. In a burst of electric current that tore through the implants embedded into her skull, as though within a mere daydream, Sombra saw through the webcam within her mind, her eyes alight with fury from the sight.

She yanked away her hand and recoiled before throwing her body into the door with a furious rage, sending it flying open as Dex jumped to his feet, his hands flying into the air innocently enough before realizing who had crashed into the room. His trousers hung at his knees, revealing his underwear as he dropped his arms to button up once again, angrily seething at the intrusion.

"The fuck, freak?!"

Sombra immediately turned toward the twin sized bed that fit within the hollowed out nook within the wall, Windowmaker laying there emotionlessly with her drab-colored shirt torn open and her own pants nearly fully undone. The hacker clenched her hand into a fist as she stomped into the room, Dex holding out his hands as though to stop her.

"Hey! You've got a fuckin' blue, brain-dead girl _right _over there and you ain't gonna share?! Who knows whatever the fuck you two do to her over there; you might as well offer your fellow Talon operatives a good shag every now'n then- it might help ya two get outta the bottom of the pile!"

Sombra grit her teeth, throwing another wild punch, though the scrawny man fell into a crouched position, slithering away from the swing and throwing a vicious kick into Sombra's stomach, sending her to the ground as she grasped herself in pain. Before she could retaliate, Dex fell atop her with a knee planted into her back, leaving Sombra grunting angrily as pain welled up behind her.

"Fuckin' freaks, your whole squad," Dex grumbled as he yanked a nightstick from his trousers, throwing his arm out to ready it for its vicious clubbing purpose, "I oughta teach ya a lesson 'bout respect, ya little bi-"

_Click_

Dex paused, a cold sweat immediately building up at the back of his neck as a frigid, thick object pressed against the back of his head following the unmistakably sound of a gun being set to fire. He could faintly notice the dark waves of vapor emanating from the ghost of a man that he knew was behind him, his teeth chattering coldly as he eyed Sombra beneath his knee.

Reaper's frosty voice appeared, hollow as it was, with intent, "Do it. I dare you."

A chill worked its way down Dex's spine, the young man turning his head upon his shoulders like a crank-up toy, eyes nearly bulging as they met that sickeningly ghoulish mask. His knee weakened, allowing Sombra to spin in place, shooting her leg through the air and clocking the man in the face with her heel, collapsing him into another lifeless body lying on the floor, making the final tally two.

She glared at Reaper angrily, "I _told _you to-"

"I just saved your life, muchacha," Reaper noted with an accusatory tone, "Maybe even more if he'd managed to tear those things out of your head."

Sombra frowned, understanding what Reaper was getting at, deciding to drop it and, instead, hurry over toward the bed where Widowmaker remained lying down, her eye's peering nearly empty toward the ceiling as though everything that had just transpired had just occurred outside of her realm of understanding, as if she'd been left elsewhere. Sombra grabbed hold of her thin-fitting coat and yanked them from her arms, covering up the lilac-colored skin that broke through the torn shirt that had left the assassin indecent.

"Pendejos," she murmured to herself quietly, hatred lining her voice, "Every last one of 'em."

Reaper stomped toward the front end of the underground hovel cautiously, unsure if this Splitstrand squad had had any friends. As he moved along, Sombra helped Widowmaker to her feet, the woman moving along simply as she was instructed in only the most minute of senses. Where Sombra pulled her, she followed. It was the same with everybody that took hold of her. She simply followed along without a second thought.

But this was what made her such a deadly woman- the deadliest woman. When commanded to shoot, she shot, and when commanded to shoot _someone_, she did so without even a hint of doubt.

Sombra's eyes fell to the ground as the two worked their way out of the hole in the earth, thinking of that night she'd first met the woman known, then, as Amelie Lacroix. She remembered looking into her eyes, finding such hatred at her life, such regret. Her eyes were like an orator in themselves, speaking more than the woman's lips ever could. So full of emotion.

Now they were empty. They were as lifeless as this life among this gutter of Talon operatives. Nobody came here to thrive, but to survive, many of them already numbed to the world, to humanity itself. Sombra was much the same way, she thought, albeit with a shameful recollection that tasted something like modesty. Everybody down here, in this pit in the earth underneath some unknown landmass, were merely attempting to survive in that world above that had been so unfair. Sombra, Widowmaker, even Reaper- none were exempt from this fact; a fact that Talon drew upon to continue churning. All this ran through Sombra's mind, recalling her own lost humanity.

After all, there was a time when she _was _human. When her name was Olivia Colomar. When it was just her and her father, in a little town in Mexico.


	3. Olivia Colomar

"Here you are, Oli…" muttered Santiago with a gentle smile, reaching his arms out to present his daughter with a metal can, the lengthy end of silverware poking out, which Olivia eyed curiously, ultimately reaching out and taking the can to examine.

Her father chuckled as she looked at it every which way except from its open top, shaking his head, "Dear, it's a container. Look."

He directed the seven-year-old, tenderly grasping her wrist and pulling her hands down so she could see the can full of shaped bits of spaghetti dunked within a healthy portion of tomato sauce. Olivia's face brightened as it jumped up to stare into her father's eyes, so pleased by her excitement.

"Papa! It's those Spaghettos!" she cried out with awe, leaving her father happily laughing with a low tone.

"I know!" he replied, trying to match her excitement, "I remember you seeing them in one of your books. You wanted some sooo bad; they looked so tasty, huh?"

Olivia nodded rapidly, "Uh huh!"

Her father smiled, "Well? Go on and try it!"

Mouth agape, Olivia stared at the delicious-looking mass of food before her, clunkily taking hold of the spoon and working up a portion to bring to her mouth, concentrating mightily to taste the delicacy she'd so craved. Taking a bite, her face immediately twisted in disgust, swinging the can up to her face so as to spit out the contents of her mouth, nearly crying from how nasty she'd found it.

"EW!" she cried out, "It's gross!"

Santiago's brow fell sadly, though he kept his warm smile, his face a downtrodden juxtaposition as his daughter threw her arms out toward him for her father to take the can from her. He accepted it as she rushed back toward the kitchen for a drink of water to clear her mouth out further, leaving her father to stand from his crouched position, watching the canned food in his hand, his heart breaking at the sight.

Maybe next time he'd be able to make his daughter happy.

* * *

Night fell, hiding the ramshackle condition of Santiago's home, the building having fallen victim to many of the improvised explosives that had been tossed back and forth just outside for months now. He walked threw what had once been his living room, making his way through to the next room where Olivia had been reading her books, knocking on the door's threshold to grab her attention, though she was buried in her current book, causing a worn smile to appear on the middle-aged man's face.

He stepped into the room, resting his hands upon the small table and the back of his daughter's chair as he leaned down to watch, speaking warmly, "What are you reading tonight?"

Olivia dropped the book so she could point, her voice arousing excitement as she noted a corner of the current page, "Look at that! It's so cool, huh?!"

Santiago's lips caved inward, speaking quietly, trying to muster enthusiasm for her 'book', "Flat screen television, 75", for $200. What a deal, huh?"

"What's it even do?!" Olivia asked, both with inquiry but also in a tone that sounded like offense toward something foreign, "It looks like a window that you can't see through. What's the point?"

Her father frowned, hoping to avoid another Spaghettos incident, "I don't know, I haven't read this book before."

"You haven't?" Olivia asked curiously, "My favorite one is… Here."

She had reached over to her stack of books, or rather catalogues, most of which were damaged, and pulled one out, flipping through it until pausing, pointing near the middle crease of the page, "This one's got dolls and toys. Look at that one! It says it takes…"

"Talks, dear," Santiago corrected warmly.

"Wow…" Olivia whispered to herself in awe, "Like how you and I talk?"

He nodded, "Exactly. You know, when I was a kid, we had stuffed animals like that doll, and they would tell stories…"

"What?! Stories?!" Olivia exclaimed with sheer wonderment, turning to stare her father in the face.

"_Whole, entire_ stories," he smiled, his heart trembling at the false hope he was presenting her.

Olivia's eyes glazed over before she whipped her head back down toward the catalogue, "Like listening to a friend?!"

Her father paused, taken aback, only speaking a moment later with a soft voice, "Yeah. Something like that."

His daughter happily bounced in her chair, flipping through her book with renewed vigor, humming to herself as she watched all the toys skipping by, all brand new with this now realization that any one of them could speak to her, be a friend to her, something Olivia hadn't ever had.

* * *

A distant rumbling tore through the air, Santiago's head rising from his current project as he watched the billowing smoke off in the distance. The entire far wall of his home had collapsed, leaving him with nothing to obscure him from the horrific sight. The rebels were losing, he knew, which only meant that this rebellion would be pushed back through his town just as the war had come through once before, torn asunder as the Mexican rebeldes tore through the government's ranks.

Santiago turned over his shoulder, eyeing Olivia as she slept atop the ramshackle love seat sitting in the only standing room in the home, before turning back toward the darkness overshadowing his broken home, a churning growing in his stomach at the thought of further unrest.

While his daughter slept, he placed the doll he was sewing together from scraps of clothing he'd salvaged during his night-time supply runs onto the table, careful to pull a towel overtop the thing in case Olivia were to wake, scooting his feet toward the middle of the ash-laden living room, sweeping his foot in a large swatch across the floor, revealing a round, crimson rug underneath. He dropped to his knees, pulling away the shaggy rug and slid a thick finger into a knot hole in the wooden floor below, lifting it to reveal a hidden space in the ground, reaching in to grab a purse, sure to look around for any sign of spying eyes.

He pulled out a handful of bills, all assorted increments of pesos that he'd collected or earned along the decimated countryside by one illicit mean or another. He wasn't happy about it, but it would ultimately buy him passage up further north, away from the rampant violence that crossed the southern part of Mexico. Such means, however, were sold by body, meaning he and Olivia, both, would be double any going rate, a thought that troubled him. His wife had perished in his arms, her dying wish for him being to keep watch over their precious daughter, a request he'd had no intention of leaving to anybody else.

His bills amounted to just over two-thirds what he needed, the first good news he'd had in a while, and he sighed in relief while returning the money to his wife's old, ratty purse, closing up the floor and kicking the ashen piles over it once again. Santiago then returned to his work on Olivia's eighth birthday present, sitting at the table and seeing up the doll once again, trying his best to make it something similar to what had been in the catalogue, the only sound he made being of the tiny grunts upon the needle drawing blood with every stab at his fingers.

* * *

Olivia felt the shaking at her shoulder as her eyes slowly opened, turning her head to watch her father while he stood up straight, smiling mutely as she awoke. She pushed herself up to sit, rubbing her eyes while her father squatted down to her level, resting his hand atop her knee with a downtrodden smile.

"Hey, sweetheart. Did'ya sleep well?"

She mumbled sleepily, "Mmm'I guess."

"Good, good," Santiago nodded approvingly, "Hey, it's getting late, you know. You'll have to get in the cabinet again, right? You wanna make sure you've got everything in there that you need?"

Olivia yawned, "Waaaah- I already did that the other day. I'm okay."

"Awesome," Santiago nodded with a smile, "Well, head on in there and I'll make sure to come and tuck you in, alright?"

His daughter nodded before working her way off the torn couch, sauntering into the living room while her father rounded the house, looking for anything he might have missed that needed to go in with Olivia. Finding nothing, he turned to watch his daughter open the armoire, sleepily working her way into it before pulling at a hidden wall that revealed the wall behind, before opening yet another trap door in the wall of the home, crawling into the tiny little room that sat in the middle of the foundation, turning to watch her father as she stood there opposite the wall and armoire.

Santiago made his way over toward her, crouching against the armoire and holding himself steady as he leaned closer, speaking, "Don't worry, my daughter. It won't be for too long this time."

"Promise?" she asked with a hint of worry in her voice.

Her father nodded, "Promise. Maybe even by the time you wake up, you can come back out. Did you get your books?"

She nodded sleepily.

"Good, good," Santiago spoke slowly, managing a smile as he reached a hand over, wrapping it along the back of Olivia's head to bring her closer to the hold in the wall, leaving a gentle kiss at her forehead, "Te amo, Olivia. You'll be safe."

Nodding as if trapped somewhere in her sleep, Olivia slid back into her tiny hole in the wall as her father closed up the two trap doors, leaving the eight-year-old with little more than lamplight to keep her company in the small square room. Sleepily, Olivia turned toward the cut-in-half twin sized bed, laying down and pulling her pillow underneath her head, still frightfully tired, and managed to fall asleep there.

Her little hole in the wall. There to keep her safe from that world outside.

* * *

Santiago stepped along the strewn-out glass beneath his feet, crinkling under his boots with every step. He carefully worked his way deeper into the run-down gas station, keeping his body low, a rifle held tightly in his hands, unsure as to whether or not this building's tenancy had remained the same since his last visit.

The city had become a wreck after the revolution had swept through, the missiles and grenades having torn entire buildings from their foundation, some of the smaller ones being overturned entirely. Santiago had thought about joining the revolt, taking his rifle and following the rebeldes on their hard fought road to freedom, the only thing keeping him back here, lost in the scavenger's life, was his daughter. Before the war, he'd seen first hand the government's ironclad rule over its people, raising taxes to the extreme, personally visiting homes of people and demanding more, beating down doors, and people, when they had nothing more to give.

Stepping through the gas station, Santiago came to a sudden halt as the clicking sound of a gun being readied echoes through the air, forcing his body to crouch down in an instant as he drew his rifle, turning his head from side to side, training his gun on anything that might-

"BOO!"

Santiago swung around as his heart ceased to function, a cold sweat breaking across his neck and the sight of Luis Noboa entering his vision. Santiago gasped in relief, shaking his head angrily at having been taken for a ride simply for the man's amusement, rising to his feet with a seething noise from his gritted teeth.

"Heheh, gotcha!" Luis cackled loudly, his high voice betraying his aged and haggard appearance, stroking his lengthy, scraggly bears with tendril-like fingers.

With a boorish grunt, Santiago pulled his rifle back to his chest, "For fuck's sake, Luis; I could'a shot you!"

"But'cha didn't," Luis nagged with a sing-song voice, "Yer too sawft, Santiago- A true family man. Somethin' that'll get _you_ killed."

Santiago calmed his voice as he went along, "Just take me through your shit, Luis; I don't have time for your nonsense, it's past midnight as it is."

"Fine, fine; customer's always right," Luis shrugged to himself, playfully rolling his beard along his outstretched finger as he turned toward the main counter, sliding over the top and crouching low to examine his inventory.

Luis was what he might have self-declared himself to be- a professional scavenger. He'd been homeless before the war, and to survive even then, he needed a keen eye and quick mitts, both of which were only honed after the revolt had destroyed the town. Nothing changed for Luis other than the fact that there was simply more stuff to find amidst the rubble, and he turned it into quite the lucrative 'business', it's only legitimacy being the gun Luis always had on him. 'Inept scavengers', like Santiago, would often track Luis down for food he might have stored, or anything, really, for a price.

"Noooow, that rebell'on is lookin' mighty sore, ya know," Luis murmured from beneath the counter, "They _were_ sayin' Overwatch sent in some units; turned the tide of the war back 'n favor of the aristocrats."

Santiago shrugged, "I don't doubt it. The army hadn't a clue what to do against rebels- their inconsistency was their strongest asset. Overwatch, if they're as godly as their reputation- they've already scoped out every which way the rebeldes could, and would, go."

"Bah," Luis grumbled under his breath, "Carajos! Bastards up north think they can pick on their people just 'cause. Lost my home 'n my family 'cause of the shits up in the capital."

Santiago shrugged, "At least they keep it calm. I wouldn't have to sleep with this thing by my side if I weren't so far south."

He raised his hand to show off his rifle, making his point as Luis' eyes bounced up from behind the counter, frowning in the darkness before continuing to rummage through his stuff, stacking a wide array of items and knick knacks atop the counter as he reached beneath the counter. Finished, Luis rose to his feet, slamming an open palm into the counter.

"That's all."

Santiago narrowed his vision to see in the blackness of night, wondering aloud, "I need something specific. Something that'll let me talk through walls."

"Pfft," Luis scoffed, "The fuck're you- You just came in last week askin' for a can a' spaghetti!"

Shrugging, Santiago replied, "Guess I'm feeling adventurous."

Luis rolled his eyes, leaning onto the counter with a sigh, eyeing his stock of items, reaching up to scratch the side of his face with his free hand, "Well, I ain't got nothin' specifically for that. The, eh- Closest thing I can get'cha is this laptop here; maybe you could work it, ya know, wirelessly talk through its speakers."

He shrugged lazily, "Other than that, I dunno."

Santiago rolled his lips inward, thinking thoroughly before asking, "Gonna be a high price, huh?"

Scoffing again, Luis turned his eyes up toward Santiago, "Pfft, I don't even know how ta turn the thing on- it serves no use to me. If it gets ne enough ta buy me a meal down in Yucatan, some 'a those juicy-ass floutas, hey, I can't complain."

Santiago nodded calmly, hiding his relief, not wanting to come across as too happy about the man's offer, before rummaging through his satchel attentively, "Well, how much they goin' for these days? I've got a couple twenties; how's $40? Should get you quite a few."

Luis massaged his chin, rustling his head as his face rose in consideration, "Eh, yeah, I can see that bein' a good offer n' all…"

"Good," Santiago spoke up, dropping the cash atop the counter, "Hopefully I-"

He paused, watching Luis reaching a meandering hand over to push the two bills back toward his customer, sliding them to a stop before shrugging, "Prices _do_ go up for a myriad of reasons. Sympathizing with those shitty despots up north happens to be one of 'em."

"Luis, I-"

The broker fired back, "They came through before the revolt 'n kidnapped my wife and daughter, kicked me out onto the streets, stole my home from me while they did whatever fuckin' horrors to my wife and little girl. Stumbled upon 'em both in the landfill a month later. And yet gonna call their rule _calm_?"

Santiago bit his lips, "I didn't mean-"

"Oh, I know what'cha meant," Luis accused, grasping the laptop, "Three hundred pesos."

A quivering broke through Santiago's spine. That was almost all he had accrued since this war had broken out- all he had going toward he and his own daughter escaping to safety. He stared down at the trembling hand of Luis grappling ahold of the laptop, weighing his options, knowing he wasn't about to part with that much money.

"Too much?" Luis suddenly inquired with a curious stare, "There are _other _ways to sate my interests besides money, y'know. Entertainment, maybe?"

Santiago's eyes rose with dreadful inquiry, watching carefully as Luis reached beneath the counter to paw at more of his wares underneath, ultimately settling for a mallet, placing it atop the counter along with an awl that had the pointed end converted into a wider, flat wooden bit. Luis grinned rather excitedly, crossing his arms as he watched Santiago, a giddiness arising from his customer's surprising indecision.

"You need all yer fingers, perchance?" Luis wondered in an iniquitous tone, earning a worried glance from his customer.

* * *

Santiago wrapped one of the few rags that he'd managed to keep around his hand, pulling it into his chest and squeezing it tightly to stop the bleeding that still wasn't stopping. His malnutrition had shown dramatically in that moment as coagulation wasn't something he could take for granted, having lost so much blood that he was now feeling sick, shivering as he stood there trying to pressurize the empty space along the end of his hand just beyond the second knuckle.

Still, he didn't stop. He brought out the laptop from his satchel and carefully sat it upon the table, wondering how exactly he was to supposed to work it, eventually getting it started. He stood and wandered through the house, serendipitously stumbling upon an old Bluetooth microphone, which was exactly what he needed. He nodded graciously to nobody in particularly, returning to the laptop and pairing the two devices with a hopeful sigh.

Turning toward the armoire against the wall, he thought of Olivia and her impending birthday, reaching beneath the table and grabbing the makeshift doll he'd been sewing for her, his fresh sight upon the disheveled and amateurish thing causing a gentle whimper from deep within his throat, knowing it was such an atrocious offering for his daughter. His eyes closed, both from exhaustion and the painful tugging of his heart at such a worthless present, knowing it was all he could give to the daughter he so desperately wanted to give the entire world to.

Somewhere within that sweltering heartache, his consciousness faded into sleep, unable to allow him the ability to being his daughter out from her horrible hole in the wall, such security measures nothing but a further reminder of a world provided by a father to his daughter. One that was worth as little as the doll in his lap.

* * *

Santiago's eyes jumped open as he found the sun scoping him out, lying atop the table with a weary disposition as he awoke. He quickly pushed himself up, just noticing the soft weight against his feet- Olivia's gift. He quietly composed himself, hiding the doll and hurrying over toward the wall and quickly opening the armoire, reaching in to-

_Boom_

He swung his body backward to peer off through the destroyed wall, noticing another plume of smoke entering the sky, so much closer than the night before. Santiago shivered at the thought of Olivia having to live in her tiny hovel for an extended period of time as she had once before, when the war had first swept through. She so hated it, even causing Santiago to worry now that his sleep had kept her inside for so long. He hurried back toward opening up the wall, revealing Olivia inside, rapidly turning her head with a tearful expression. She hurried over, diving through to hug her father's head, her voice a weeping fit.

"Papa!" she cried out painfully, "Papa!"

Santiago readily held her in return, apologizing, "I'm so sorry, Oli."

"I hate being in there! I hate it!" she complained, tugging at her father's neck for a closer look.

He nodded into her shoulder, "I know, sweetheart. I know…"

With a heart full of grief, Santiago pulled away, helping Olivia through the two openings as he thought about giving her the present early, knowing the front lines would be rolling back through anytime. She held onto him tightly as she reached the outside world, possibly thinking she'd never have seen him again, following at his side as he directed her toward the table.

"Look Oli, I got you a present," he smiled as he wiped away his tears, "I found him just last night. It _is_ your birthday coming up, right?"

Between two sniffles, Olivia asked quietly, "_Him_..?"

Her father chuckled as he bent down to reach beneath the table, "Oh, yeah! You have to know whether or not your friends are boys or girls, right?"

Olivia stared at him full of critique as he pulled out the doll, presenting it to her with a weak smile that betrayed how ashamed he felt with the horrible gift. Her brow immediately fell as she looked at it, then back up to her father.

"But it's so ugly," she complained, "It doesn't look anything like in my book!"

Her father kept his softened smile, warding off the urge to cry as he knelt down to explain, "O-Oh, but this is a special doll. Look, it can't talk by itself, but maybe if it had some help, right? Look, here's a laptop computer; maybe if you sit him on it, it'll let him talk to you."

Olivia eyed her father distrustfully before staring at the poorly sewn doll, her face curling uncertainly, "Uh… You sure..?"

"Well, I mean, they won't work like _that_," her father assured warmly, "It needs to warm up to you, you know? You can't just go up to somebody and be mean, right? You've got to get to know one another first."

He held her shoulder, scooting her toward the lone couch in the broken-down house, "Why don't you just try talking to it, playing with it; who knows, he might be really friendly if you give it a shot!"

Still skeptical, Olivia was quite easily persuaded by the prospect of having an actual friend, no matter how raggedy they might be. She brought the stuffed doll up closer to examine, stroking a finger along the noticeable seams in between squares of fabric, wondering how exactly this thing was supposed to do much of anything. Still, her father pressed her along, leaving her with little more than a cursory interest, deciding to go along and attempt to-

BOOM

The two of them swung their bodies around at the massive crash that seemed to have gone on just down the street, much to Santiago's horror. Olivia instantly threw her arms around her father in terror, squeezing him tightly as her eyes widened, catching the debris floating through the air, the chaos close enough to be visible. Instantly, Santiago took Olivia's arm, nearly dragging her toward the armoire with a lump in his throat.

"I know you hate it, Oli, but listen to me," he began, kneeling down and grabbing her shoulders, "It'll keep you safe, just like last time, remember?"

Olivia didn't react, her eyes going blank as fright overtook her until her father gently pressed his palms against her cheeks, bringing her attention back to him, "Listen, sweetheart, it'll be okay. This should be the last time you have to do this, alright? See? and you have a friend to have in there this time, right? I knew you hated being alone."

"Just this one last time, Oli," Santiago nearly pleaded, "You just have to be a strong girl this one last time, alright?"

Her throat dry, Olivia could only nod as her father pulled her closer, leaving a tender kiss at her forehead as-

BOOOOM- CRASH

Without another word, Santiago took his daughter and led her to the armoire, rushing to get her into the space in the wall before closing it and the back wall of the wooden cabinet. Quickly working up a nervous sweat, Santiago rushed to kick away the ash above his living room trap door, tossing away the rug and yanking the planken door up and grappling his tin case of accumulated pesos, the only thing he had in this world, save for his daughter. He tossed it into the armoire, shutting the door and rushing to grab his rifle. Hoping. Praying that whomever might get into the cabinet would notice and stash and stop at that.

* * *

The enclosed room was little more than a few feet in any direction, though in her time having been enclosed within its confines for safety's sake, she'd managed to make it somewhat presentable. Hand-drawn pictures were taped up to the drywall surrounding her, and a tiny mattress had been cut in half to allow her a comfortable place to sit or sleep. Opposite that was a tiny end table that would hold anything she needed in there, such as food or her catalogue books.

Today, however, with chaos brewing just outside, Olivia wasn't in any mood to examine her enclosed surroundings. She had dropped the laptop on the table, clutching the doll in her arms for any semblance of security as she eyed the slight discolor in the wall that signaled her way in and out, terrified of some stranger peeking through and kidnapping her. Her father had always warned her of the conditions surrounding their home, particularly in the months since the revolution had first tore through the city.

Olivia thought of her father, then of his present, staring down at the poorly-made doll, which had already begun to tear from her tight hold a moment ago. She frowned at it, slightly worried that it would be ruined before she'd even had a chance to talk to it. Knowing her father would be safe, as he'd always been before, she did her best to get her mind off of the periodic blasts heard through the walls, along with the ratta-tat-tat of dysrhythmic gunfire, gently placing the doll atop the laptop as her father had instructed. Her eyes narrowed skeptically while watching the worn gift, frowning at herself for considering giving the thing the time of day, though she did as her father had instructed.

"H-Hello?" she asked quietly, as if not wanting to be heard doing something so silly.

After a moment, the doll suddenly spoke up, sending Olivia recoiling back in shock, "Hello Olivia!"

The eight-year-old crawled back away along the mattress, eye wide, unsure of what was going on. It was talking! Truly, it was! Warily enough, she watched the doll with astonishment before slowly creeping ack toward the edge of the mattress, making sure she wasn't dreaming by poking her finger into her palm to no avail.

"How are you?" the doll wondered aloud, "You're a good girl, aren't you?"

Olivia quietly muttered back in reply, "I- Yes..?"

"Huh?" the doll went on, "I couldn't quite hear you!"

Cautiously, Olivia raised her voice, still worried about being heard speaking to a doll, "Y-Yeah."

"Your papa told me you were, so I was so happy to meet you," the doll spoke with a livened voice, "He said you were soooo looking forward to a friend!"

* * *

Santiago reached an arm up to wipe his face, returning the wireless mic to his chin as he sat huddled in the corner, keeping an eye out on the street outside, prepared to defend his home if anybody dared to wander near. The darkness concealed him enough, but he knew the provincial army was well-equipped enough, even before Overwatch had joined their ranks with all the tech in the world. He readied his rifle, pulling it closer against his chair as he awaited his daughter's reply, which came with a nervously embarrassed voice.

"I-I guess..?"

He smiled, clearing his throat before switching the microphone back on, throwing his voice, heightening it slightly comically to continue the illusion, "You guess? Well you seem like a really nice girl to me! You haven't even torn me up like my last family did!"

Another pause.

"I-I mean, that wouldn't be nice," Olivia assured over the speaker.

Santiago smiled, dropping his face into his chest before bringing the microphone down to his newly oriented face, "You know, I overheard your papa. He loves you so much."

"A-And I- I love him too!" Olivia shouted as though the doll had been questioning that fact.

Santiago's arm fell into his lap as he smiled contentedly to himself, knowing his daughter would readily claim such a thing even to a meagre doll of his own deprecated design. Unable to speak for his shaking body causing his throat to tighten with tears, he left the microphone turned off, probably leading Olivia with a confused and awkward air, as she went on.

* * *

"I love him too," Olivia smiled, lowering her head to hide her smile, "I know I'm mean to him sometimes. Momma said I should be nicer, but… Papa always says…"

She cleared her throat, talking deeply to emulate her father, "Papa says my spunk will keep me strong at all times."

* * *

Santiago reached his free hand up to cover his face, clunkily so, given his missing finger. He shook his head at how kind of a daughter had managed to spring up in this wasteland of a city, between these ramshackle walls.

* * *

"He loves you more than anything in the world," the doll managed with a quivering voice, earning Olivia's curious stare.

She asked quietly, "A-Are you okay?"

"Yes-" the doll replied haltingly, "I just-"

* * *

Santiago slipped his thumb from the switch, his eyes opening as he caught the pitter-patter of boots clunking along the street outside. Lifting his head, he clutched his rifle tighter as he caught a glimpse of the camo-dressed rebeldes rushing past his home, followed by stray gunfire alongside a massive

BOOOOM

Shrapnel blew into the open home, forcing him to raise an arm to blanket his face from the bellowing dust approaching him. He took the microphone, bringing it to his face once again as his eyes peered over his skin, shakily surveying the landscape before him.

"I'm just afraid," he spoke in a quieter voice, doing his best to strain his face to continue his heightened voice, "Afraid of all that noise outside."

He unclicked the microphone just as an Omnic battle tank rolled on by, humming loudly as its domed top spun around curiously, trying to spy any rebeldes it could find, its autonomous sights prepared to take a single shot to kill anybody who stood in its way. Santiago slipped lower down the wall, trying to stay out of sight.

"Don't worry. Papa has kept me safe every time I've been in here," he suddenly heard from the speaker, "He'll keep us safe now."

Santiago dipped his face into his shoulder as the tank's treads rumbled the earth beneath it, causing the already destroyed drywall above him to crumble, falling on top of him and threatening to smoke him out, though he remained, breathing into the crick of his elbow, still unable to see through the dust.

He muted the volume on the speaker before managing the microphone to his lips, his eyes open just enough to catch the uniformed man peeking in through the cracked wall from the living room, peering right toward him. Santiago readied his rifle as blood rushed through his veins, his heart running a mile a minute.

"Olivia, I love you."

He dropped the microphone, throwing his arms forward to aim his shot, his daughter jumping up furiously in the adjacent room, angrily shouting as she reached out to her doll, tearing it apart, "I know it's you, papa! You tricked me! I knew you were lying the whole-!

BA- BANG

Olivia went deathly still, having heard the gunshot behind her a moment before it was replicated on the laptop. Then there was only silence.

She slowly turned her head toward the discolored wall, as if any movement of hers might be her last. Her breaths heaved in frightful vibrations enough that she covered her mouth with her hands to keep from making the slightest whimper. Then she gradually sat down onto her mattress, her blood running cold at the numbing silence, her eyes never leaving that wall. For all she knew, any moment could be her last.

And for two days, every minute. Each of those 2,280 minutes. Each and every one, so far as she understood, was her last. and she lived it with death just inches away.


	4. The Assassin Misses

Sombra slammed the door shut behind her, leaning back into it as her hands reached up to massage her face, trying her best to ward off the growing exasperation filling her body. Opening her fingers to peer through, she caught a glimpse of Widowmaker standing the middle of the room, having been brought into Sombra's room after her retrieval from the Splitstrand's room across the hall. Reaper had remained to "clear the crime scene", something he'd mentioned he had prior experience with, though Sombra had her doubts, but didn't particularly care how well he cast off suspicion from them. Were they accused, it would merely be another chance to clock Dex in the face, she figured.

Dropping her head and taking deep breaths to calm herself, shutting her eyes, she heard movement from where Widow had been standing, raising her head just enough to watch as she aimlessly grabbed her torn shirt, pulling the two ragged edges together as if in an attempt to fix the fabric.

"Sorry," she muttered quietly, "This shirt was yours."

Sombra sighed, "No, don't. It wasn't your fault. Come here."

She took to Widowmaker with a steady gait, the assassin watching curiously as Sombra reached out to grab the bottom hem of the piece of clothing, "Lift."

Widow obeyed, still with a curious expression, raising her arms as Sombra slid the loose-fitting shirt up over her slender torso, tossing it into a corner as she turned to grab another one from her closet. The hacker pulled one hanger after another, scrutinizing each shirt she came across, trying her best to match any one of them to the indigo skin covering the ballerina-formed woman behind her.

"Green, maybe..?" Sombra asked herself, turning her head while lifting a sleeve up to examine it with Widow in the background, "Eh, maybe not."

She continued for a few moments, pulling out the sleeve of a blue t-shirt and turning to examine Widow, though her arm slipped away from the length of fabric as she watched Widow's head turned low, her hand sliding around her bare stomach as though in search of something.

"Widow, cut it out," Sombra chided, closing in on the assassin and grabbing her wrist gently.

Widow's eyes remained on her stomach, "Something's missing, is it not?"

"Get that out of your head, chica. Nothing good comes from chasing what clearly isn't apparent," Sombra warned with a sigh, unable to keep from taking a glance at her right stomach as well, her brow suddenly twisting in anger, "Fucker. Got some dirt on you or something. Hold on, I'll get it off."

As if just now noticing the mark on her hip, Widow's eyes grew slightly wider in investigation, running her finger along the dirt atop her skin, bringing it back up to examine it between her finger and thumb as though it were brand new to her.

"Widow, you dummy, you don't- Quit getting more of yourself dirty, okay?" Sombra requested with a groan, returning with a tiny wet rag, "Honestly, you're like an infant sometimes."

She bent down to examine the dirt, slowly running the rag along Widow's skin to wipe away the impurities, mumbling to herself as she did so, "Guess I can't blame _you_ though…"

Widow watched with curious eyes at the foreign hand running along her hip with the rag, reaching down almost in a helpful manner, though it only caused Sombra to speak up again, "Watch it; I'll get that gunk off your hand next, okay?"

Repelled, Widow did as she was asked, simply keeping her hands to her sides, though she went on watching Sombra with a blank curiosity until the hacker rose to her feet, shaking her head before reaching for Widow's wrist and pulling her hand up. Widow's eyes locked onto her fingers, slowly coming to another realization as Sombra muttered aloud.

"Y'know, I always wanted a doll," Sombra admitted with a grumble, "Didn't think it'd be this difficult, though."

Cleaning off the grime from Widow's skin, Sombra cringed as the assassin spoke up, watching the space of skin between her fingers, "Something's missing there, too."

Sombra let loose a heavy sigh, shaking her head, "Chica, listen. I done told you once. Do not chase what is not apparent. Ever. That shit gets you killed."

Widow nodded in acceptance as Sombra returned to the line of shirts dangling from a loose wire shed strung up beside the porous cement walls surrounding her room, grabbing the dark, rose-colored purple one and returning to Widow, though her hands fell dramatically as her head rolled around her shoulder at the sight of Widow cupping her breasts, the dancer's eyes turning up to watch Sombra with a certain unease.

"S-Something's missing here, too…" she uttered quietly, a tear appearing at the edge of her eye.

Sombra quickly strode over, pushing Widow's arms away and quickly catching her in an embrace, holding her tightly. Her hand crept up to grab hold of the back of Widow's head, gingerly holding her closer into the crick of her neck.

"If you want to stop feeling these things, stop thinking about them," Sombra explained quietly, "The moment you start thinking you're not whole, that's the moment you're wrong. You're everything to me, chica; you're like the sister I never had. You mean everything to me."

She felt Widow's head nodding against her neck, allowing Sombra a sigh of relief, "Thank you. Mi hermana. Sœur."

"You've not a thing missing," she assured, "You're everything, and more."

Widow didn't reply, but also failed to move, which was as much of an agreement as Sombra might have expected at the moment. Still, despite how quiet she was, how frigid her skin felt, how distant she acted or even how often she disobeyed Sombra's instruction, it was as close to a sister as Sombra ever had, or possibly ever would have. Something comforting at the ease of befriending such a docile person, something freeing about having peered into the very depths of a person's mind and knowing them better than one's self. For all that was fucked up with Sombra, she knew, Amélie Lacroix was far easier to understand and come to terms with, especially now.

"Okay," Sombra relayed as she pulled away, "Now, arms up."

Widow replied with obedience, raising her arms while Sombra smiled appreciatively, grouping the shirt in her hands before reaching up and working it down past her hands before yanking it completely down her body, running her hands down to even out the wrinkles as Widow dropped her arms.

"Perfect," Sombra mused with a proud smile, "I can't have my sister looking all ratty, can I? It certainly helps down here, y'know. All this grey and dark. It's nice to have something pretty, right?"

As though she were being compared to something unpleasant, Widow's eyes widened as her head jumped down to examine her body, "I- I am not-!"

"Shh," Sombra instructed with a grin, "Just accept the compliment, alright? I don't ever pass 'em out, so you know they're genuine when I do. "

Still unsure as to what to make of it all, Widow merely remained still, leaving Sombra to smirk as she watched her doll-like surrogate sister, turning away as she returned to her tiny area where she kept clothing and other generalized assortments of stuff whenever she and Reaper returned to the Gutter. Pulling a crate up atop her bed, she rummaged through its insides while Widow absentmindedly poked at her loose shirt hanging down in front of her, nearly mesmerized by the free-floating fabric. Sombra returned with a gentle sort of smile as she directed Widow toward the bed.

"Sit. We're gonna do something fun, alright?" Sombra explained rather childishly, "Hold out your hand."

Widow obeyed as she sat beside her, watching her hand curiously as it arose, being taken into Sombra's waiting hand, the hacker stipulating darkly, "If you tell anybody about this, I'll kill you. We're gonna paint your fingernails."

"…who would I tell?" Widow asked with sincere confusion.

Shrugging, Sombra answered, "I dunno, but if Reaper catches wind of this, he won't _ever _let me live it down. or _you_, for that matter. He already doesn't like you. Well, I mean- He _does_, but because of your abilities; he couldn't care less about you as a person, y'know?"

Widow turned up to watch Sombra with confusion, leaving the hacker to sigh, shaking her head as she tugged at the arm before her hand, "Look, forget it. This is supposed to help us relax, right?"

She excitedly brought her legs up onto the bed as she grabbed a vial of nail polish, humming to herself as she selected the proper color, continuously reverting her stare back toward Widow with critique on her eyes. The self-consciousness building within her, Widow slowly began to lean away, much to Sombra's dismay.

"C'mon now, chica; it'll be fun," she assured, keeping her grip upon her wrist, "Look, we'll try it once- If you don't like it, I have some rubbing alcohol…somewhere. Please, hermana?"

Widow continued to glare at her until Sombra tried a different method of coercion, "S'il vout plait, ma sœur?"

The silent dancer remained apart from Sombra, though gradually returned, her body leaning back to normal as she allowed her hand to rest atop the woman's beside her, giving Sombra an appreciative smile as she readied the vial of nail polish.

"Thanks," Sombra spoke quietly, "Truth be told, I've always wanted to do this. I don't know; I guess I grew up too fast, I missed out on stuff like this. I always wanted a sister to play with, or at least a friend to do stuff like this with."

Widow remained unfazed as she watched the feathered ends of the nail polish brush stroking along the end of her finger, wondering silently to herself what the point of this activity might have been. Sombra, for her part, simply smiled to herself as she leaned down to blow at Widow's nail, releasing her to allow for critique.

"Well? What'cha think?"

The lilac-skinned woman's eyes shook as they stared at her nails, now laced with purple color that caused her eyes to narrow with indecision. She seemed to fancy it, as her eyes remained upon the single discoloration without disapproval, leaving Sombra to lean in closer, speaking with feigned shamefulness.

"I kinda enjoyed that, not gonna lie," Sombra snickered, "May I?"

Widow failed to answer, though in also failing to recoil as well, Sombra took it as an opportunity to continue, rather happily at that, humming quietly to herself as she went on painting Widow's nails, finding the color to match quite beautifully with her model's skin, the two pallets of light bursting into an orchid-like combination of colors. So lost in her activity, Sombra failed to notice how changing Widow's eyes became as the assassin focused, more and more strenuously, upon her hand, trailing down her knuckles and along her fingers.

"Something's missing…" she repeated, earning a look of ire from Sombra as her eyes jumped up from her nail painting.

Groaning with frustration, Sombra dropped her hands into her lap, shaking her head, "What did I just tell you, chica?! I _just _said to quit that, okay?!"

Now upset, Sombra closed up the bottle of polish, tossing it into her crate before standing up, spinning in a circle with her hands atop her hips. She shut her eyes, weighing her options, eventually bringing a hand up to press against her lips, chewing at her knuckle as she fought the idea of telling Widow what she knew. A certain guilt arose within her, that of Widow allowing her such a guilty pleasure while not mouthing off about it to anybody. Perhaps she owed it to her? Alongside that was a certain sense of pride. So what if she did tell her? Sombra was smart enough; she knew more about Widow than Widow did. Of course she wouldn't allow a lock to unloosen by her own doing. She could tell her. She knew she could.

With a sigh, Sombra turned back toward Widow, who remained nearly lost between her fingers, spinning her hands back and forth in examination. The hacker crossed her arms, kicking the back of one of her feet with the other as she spoke.

"Look, Widow… There _is_ something missing there, _and _on your stomach…" she began with twisted lips, torn into indecision, "Back before we found you- remember that? Before that, you-"

She took a moment to feel around her mind for the proper words, dipping her head low for a moment before jumping back with a peppered voice, "You hurt yourself. Really bad. Your life was so- You hated that life. You took something and kept cutting up your own skin, trying to feel alive, feel in control of your own body."

She approached the lilac woman, holding her hand and running her thumb along the interior portion of her finger, "You had scars. Deep ones. Everywhere. Your stomach, your thighs- even between your fingers."

"That's why we saved you," Sombra explained, "I couldn't handle you living that life and killing yourself. We removed all the pain from you, the scars, the emotions, everything. That's why you can't remember it- your mind refuses to."

Sombra sighed, "That's why you shouldn't think about such things. It pains me, and would harm you should you recall them. There's _nothing _about that life worth remembering, mi hermana. Nothing."

The hacker shook her head as she retrieved the bottle of paint, sitting back beside Widow with an impatient frown, "So there. Now let me finish up so you don't like affright."

Widow watched silently as Sombra went on her painting, this time without humming as she did so. The fun activity now seemed a chore, one that Sombra had hoped to avoid as her last few thoughts grew far more distasteful as they flooded her psyche; thoughts of seeing Widow's memories first hand, knowing more than the woman before her.

…lying to her sister.

She worked silently, not bothering to check Widow for anything while she painted, leaving her with a pang of shock as the lilac lady spoke up quietly, toned full of regret, "Then why do I feel lips against my fingers and not scars?"

Sombra stopped dead, her eyes peering off into the ether as she silently sat there, no answer to be found upon her normally quick mind.

"Who am I missing?" Widow asked, nearly in a whisper.


	5. Devil's Advocate

Sombra's eyes scrawled along the dark lit screen of the monitor in front of her, the spine of her back bent as she leaned forward to peer at the window there that played so vividly the images and scenes that once only inhabited the mind of Amélie Lacroix, now converted to a video that Sombra had viewed freely for months now, trying more and more to understand the woman now disassociated from her own life.

She swirled the blob of rotund titanium in her hand as she watch, these scenes only possible for her to see through the very same Cerebral Projector she'd traveled all the way to Australia to retrieve. While it could not manufacture new insights into the mind of Amélie, it's work had payed dividends, testified by Sombra's continued interest within its product, bordering on obsession by now.

She knew she'd missed something during her processes of stealing Amélie Lacroix's mind, despite being so freakishly meticulous. Widow wasn't supposed to miss anything, yet her words so shook Sombra to the core. She _missed_ something. How? And at that, she missed _lips_. But she shouldn't have a single recollection of _that man_, Sombra knew, though that fact now waned thin within the mind of the hacker.

Her eyes focused on the video playing before her, obviously taken from the point of view of Amélie; for being nothing but the memories of the woman, the images seldom included sightings of the woman behind the eyes. For all the emphasis placed upon Amélie's body, the woman rarely peered down or out toward her own body; rarely did she even peer into mirrors. Just how ashamed of her skin was she?

She had remembered _lips_. Only two points in time included such sultry glimpses, and with the meticulous quickness of a librarian, Sombra had jumped ahead to those scenes of Amélie escorting that man, Michael Hale, back to her apartment. Something was off, she now knew; something about that man _lingered_. But how? Sombra hated the idea that she hadn't been perfect, yet here she was, isolating such a trivial matter for fear that Widow's tugging at it would unravel the entire thread she'd created into mighty cloth.

Her eyes constricted in focus, watching so fervently, her body beginning to pulsate in sudden longing, knowing what all was about to transpire, having seen this scene before, rather on occasion by this point, having it nearly memorized as the camera fixed on Michael, the dark apartment of Amélie's fading away as he gave a boyish smile, scratching the back of his head as his eyes turned to avoid her stare.

The video was muted, though Sombra's own voice spoke up, ever so quietly, like a whisper, emulating Amélie's own speech, reciting as if in incantation, "You've seen more sides of me than anybody else…"

Her throat constricted dryly, forcing her a quick swallow though her eyes failed to leave the monitor, watching Michael zoom in, ostensibly by Amelie leaning into his chest, pressing against him while, herself, never breaking eye contact with that man.

Sombra whispered again, "Why not see another side-"

Her toes grew alight as they tingled, a hesitant breath escaping her lips as her eyes began to quiver, staying fixated on the sultry images before her, unable to look away. She watched as Amélie began to twist and turn with the man opposite her within the screen, a quiet whimper bursting from Sombra's lips, forcing her to throw a hand up to cover her mouth with her hand continued trailing along the space between her legs, a luscious mix of steam and saliva growing between her fingers as her eyes lost focus, desperately trying to remain coherent as her mind slowly began to waver in that space between reality and the pleasure within the pit of her stomach.

Another gasping breath escaped her as her hand vanished within her tight jeans, pleasure forcing its way along the entirety of her body until tears began to emerge from the rampant waves of euphoria searing her insides. Her eyes narrowed, watching the two people on the screen engaging in the love making that proved to be the first, and last, moments of Amélie Guillard.

Sombra's finger wormed its way into her mouth as her lips allowed it entry, whimpering silently onto her skin, her heart racing a mile a minute as she worked her way further along, her legs tightening as they unconsciously squeezed together after another whetted moan left the already worked up throat of-

_pat_

In a split second, Sombra whipped around in her chair, staring with wide eyes at the closed door behind her, her hand yanked from her mouth to grab hold of the armrest at her side. Slowly, she slid her opposite hand from between her jeans and body, smoothly reaching for the pistol that lay atop her desk, though a sudden shift in the room's shadows tipped her off to her intruder.

"You fucker," she muttered angrily, slamming a fist into her desk as she spun back toward her monitor, swiftly closing the video player's window, "I swear to fuck, pendejo; how many time's do I fuckin' have to ask you to knock?!"

A darkly deep voice emerged, that of Reaper, "I'm a ghost…"

"The fuck you are," Sombra complained, her tone still laced with venom, "I've seen you touch- You fuckin' lug around two stupid, big guns, capullo."

She shook her head with a dismissing air as Reaper replied, "The fact that you know you'll have to ask that, yet you dirty yourself up so freely-"

"Come mierda y muere," Sombra interrupted with a scornful curse.

Reaper retorted evenly, "I'm already dead, chica."

Sombra's face turned in fury, though she remained at her desk, groaning angrily to herself as she pulled her phone over to scroll through it, "Fuck off."

"When we partnered up, I made it clear," Reaper explained, "No going behind each other's back. That shit happens enough around Talon."

He took a measured pause, as if to make Sombra sweat, before continuing, "What were you doing?"

"I said _fuck off_," Sombra cursed again, kicked her desk for emphasis.

Reaper went on, "If you're too embarrassed, I already know the pleasuring yourself part; this isn't the first time, so cut the crap and tell me why you were watching that video."

Sombra didn't reply. She kept her head low, frowning to herself with an upset of allowing herself to get into this situation. She simply went on with her phone, scrolling through her menu screens aimlessly, unable to focus enough to enter anything. Suddenly, a subtle clicking rang through the darkness, a sudden chill slithering through the cool air to encompass her skin.

"Sombra," Reaper spoke, not having aimed his gun toward her, but simply readied it to fire, "Only one of us is able to die. Why were you watching-"

"It was about Widow, alright? Fuck off already; it doesn't concern you," Sombra shouted, spinning in her chair and swinging her arm toward the apparition behind her, throwing her cell phone at him.

Reaper didn't move, not that he needed to. The phone simply coursed through his form, leaving a swirling shadow in the pit of his stomach, before slamming into the wall and collapsing to the floor with a clacking sound. The phantom merely cocked his head before releasing his large fun which disappeared into the ether, satisfied with his partner's admittance.

"It _does_ concern me," he muttered with a tone so thick with coarseness, "What do you think being partners means? I know what you're up to, and you know what I'm up to. That's what avoids… misunderstandings."

Sombra's lips tugged to the side as she listened further, "I couldn't care less if you're locked in here screwing yourself every single night. I just need to know you are _not_, under any circumstance, doing anything to jeopardize what we've got going on in this professional setting."

He shrugged, "Of course, I make sure to extend the very same courtesy to you."

Sombra's ears perked up as Reaper's boots clambered closer to her back, slowly tilting away unsurely in her chair before a massive _BANG _forced her to jump in her seat as Reaper slammed a giant golden gauntlet onto her desk, nearly breaking the wooden mass free from its feet from sheer force. Sombra's eyes went wide in surprise before her head whipped up to meet Reaper's pale white mask with a start.

"W-What did you do?!"

He turned to her with a shrug, "Votes came back. Nobody wanted Doomfist going to our squad. Nobody but Maximilien, that is; and his word is gospel. We got him."

Sombra jumped up to her feet, immediately examining the massive golden gauntlet atop her desk with wide eyes, "Wh- H- Wait, how?!"

"The fact that I freed that monster's ass in the first place probably carried _some _weight," Reaper explained, "On the whole, however, Max understands our potential to bring results that please him. Don't forget how much that man _hates _Overwatch; a trait carried by both you and myself. So many Talon operatives would use this Doomfist to rob some banks or some shit, but Max probably knows you and I have far more grandiose plans to put into practice."

Sombra ran a hand over the gauntlet admiringly, "Boy, you haven't a clue. When do we get him?"

"Whenever we get a plan together. He'll be at the briefing," Reaper concluded, crossing his arms, "Which leads us to the first big question. What to do first."

With a shrug of her own, Sombra advanced, "How we usually do it. You say what you want, I say what I want, then we argue until a conclusion arises."

Reaper didn't waste a second before speaking up in answer, speaking only two words, "Moira O'Deorain."

Sombra watched him without a start, though Reaper failed to speak on the matter further, leaving a rather thick, awkward air hanging over the two until Sombra threw her shoulders up into the air in inquiry, "…okay? Who's that and why do they matter?"

"Moira made me who I am," Reaper admitted, rather openly, "That makes them more dangerous to me than anybody else standing on the face of this earth. They disappeared years ago, but I would _rather _they remain on my side regardless."

Sill immensely confused, Sombra asked further, "Any reason this hasn't come up before..?"

Reaper answered with a knowing anger, "Because Overwatch has been disbanded- I didn't _have _to worry about Moira. You get those screwheads together long enough, one of 'em's bound to figure to find them."

"Besides," Reaper continued, "I can think of eleven good reasons why we could use somebody who _knows_ how to play god."

Eyeing her feet, Sombra considered his argument quietly as the ghostly man asked freely, "You had any thoughts?"

"Not really, no," Sombra answered incredulously, "I hadn't much hope on us actually getting this far."

Reaper spoke up, almost scornfully, "Well get used to it. I'm not one to settle for less, and we just jumped to the top of the world's most dangerous crime syndicate. Talon might be second."

"Hmm, pachuco; you have quite a way with words sometimes," Sombra mused with a grin, resting her chin against her hand in thought, her face suddenly growing serious, "Michael Hale."

Reaper sighed, "Okay. Now your turn to-"

"He was just taken into Overwatch custody a few weeks ago," Sombra explained, "Remember that trouble they gave us years ago on Gibraltar? We go get him, we repeat that little endeavor, just with the deadliest woman in the world behind us and the fucking Doomfist in front."

Sombra shrugged, "Besides, we _know _where _he_ is. Max will adore us. How could we lose?"

His face dipping distastefully, Reaper argued, "_Why _do you need this person..?"

Sighing with regret, Sombra turned her lips, "Because Widow- Look, hear me out!"

Reaper had turned to walk off, leaving Sombra to rush after him, "Hey! Just listen to stupid- Hey!"

She instinctively reached out to grab his shoulder and spin him around, though as she clutched at him, instead of her hand greeting nothingness, she actually grabbed hold of something tangible, like the man's actual shoulder. She immediately recoiled in surprise, clutching onto her wrist as she stared at the man with wide eyes. Reaper stopped walking, taking a deliberate turn back toward his partner until his pale white mask appeared at the edge of his dark cloak.

"_Don't _do that…" he ordered in a dark voice, "_Ever_…"

Unable to figure what it was she'd actually done, Sombra merely nodded her head in her breathless reverie, shaking off those nerves as Reaper turned to leave, his voice catching the wind, "We're _not _wasting this opportunity on your little sex doll."

Sombra angrily turned her face, "She's not-! Get back here!"

With a chilly air emanating from his cloak whipping through the air, Reaper turned back around, "We are _not _discussing this."

"We sure as fuck are, calaca! I heard _you _out, so sit your fuckin' ass and hear _me_ out," Sombra demanded.

She must have earned his time and attention, as Reaper failed to move, simply remaining still as he watched Sombra collect her thoughts, raising her hands for emphasis, "I don't give two shits whether or not you respect that woman outside of her skills with a rifle. but if I don't get that man back, you can kiss your sniper goodbye."

Despite being devoid of eyes, she could tell he was doing something like the equivalent of focusing upon her face with confusion, his voice letting out a soft, "…what?"

"Mental locks; the reason she's how she is?" Sombra began, "If her mind wanders long enough and finagles enough with a memory, no matter how locked it is- it's like a bit of barbacoa lodged in your tooth. You can tongue it for hours and get nowhere, but at _some _point, you _will _pry it loose. Same thing here; she could potentially unravel the whole thing."

She groaned at the difficulty of explaining it, "She remembered something- that's why I had the video on. I need to find that man to keep her in check."

"You want your sniper?" Sombra argued brusquely, "We go to Gibraltar."

Reaper stared her down severely, though Sombra didn't allow him to encroach an inch, her brow furrowing with her own sense of determination. The two partook in this silent standoff for a handful of moments, Sombra gritting her teeth with a progressive anger, more so by her frustration at being totally unable to read anything about the dead man before her, given his lack of a face.

"You want to pander to that doll of yours, go ahead," Reaper challenged, "But if you want to stay my partner, you'll take my suggestion."

His voiced deepened, "Remember, chica, _you _came to me, not the other way around."

Sombra didn't back down, although her confidence was lessened by his words, knowing them to be true. Her gritting teeth lessened as well, her face simply turning into a frown as Reaper turned to leave, not bothering to collect the gauntlet atop the desk, speaking up before exiting through the closed door.

"We'll get a location on Moira," he explained, "Knowing Moira, wherever they are, Doomfist will help out tremendously."

The phantom left, leaving Sombra to groan to herself in exasperation, massaging her face with both hands as she spun back around toward her desk, shaking her head. Her pride bruised, she returned to her chair, grabbing her phone and sorting through it with scowling eyes that flickered upward to eye the gauntlet before her on more than one instance, always returning to her phone.

Knowing her points were all entirely moot, she figured she might as well get a head start on researching this Moira person.


End file.
